By Chris Pigott
The judge had a giant black hand. He held the cup as though it was weightless, a national flag fluttering lightly or a bottle of pop, and not a treasure, a heavy, meaningful moulding of tin. His eyes gleamed, his black hair shone with cream and sunshine. The crowd hushed.
“Time,” he shouted, and the townsfolk roared. “Time, boys, time!” Sweat dripped off him, ran in rivers from his temple to his cheeks then fell boiling to the matted platform. Sweat fell off the crowd too—the sweat of thrill, of anticipation, the carnival of contest.